


all the silver moons

by sorexx



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: !!! im so excited i love band, (and a big dick), Alfor is Alive, Alternate Universe - High School, BUT THIS IS RATED TEEN FOR NOW KIDS NO DICKS HERE I PROMISE, F/M, Lance has a big family, M/M, Marching Band AU, Mentions of past abuse, Musicians, band kids are crazy, but he is good at the clarinet, everyone COOL haha, everyone is in band, keith is a foster kid, keith is an orphan, keith is bad at feelings, kill me pls, laughs nervously, matt is here and well, whispers not yet anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-12-03 23:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorexx/pseuds/sorexx
Summary: Keith is convinced that the universe hates him. All he has left of his family is a clarinet, all he has left of himself is hope, and all he has left of anybody else is a handful of broken promises. The one time the universe decides, "hey, maybe this dude deserves a break" and gives him a family that actually tries and cares about him, is the time that Keith is able to join the Mighty Altean Lion Band. He expects long rehearsals, vigorous practicing, and killer calves (and he gets them -especiallythe killer calves.) What Keithdoesn'texpect is the intense, war-like relationship between Altea's marching band and their rival academy's corps, the induction into a weird, cult-like "squad ensemble" self-titled "Voltron", or the loud, obnoxious saxophone player who has, apparently, made it his life's goal to either seduce or annoy Keith to the point of death; he isn't really sure.But Keith can deal with it. He always has.Except for maybe the saxophone guy. He's a work-in-progress.





	1. through crushed hopes and new homes

**Author's Note:**

> marching band aus are my fav EVER i love them almost as much as i HATE MARCHING BAND  
> im just kidding i love marching band sometimes  
> title is from troye sivan's song "for him"! (~;  
> and everything that is in this fic is based on MY marching band experiences! my school is huge on band and it's kinda a big deal? like the band kids are lit as FUCK and aren't really "nerds" haha we're just fucking crazy (and everyone wants us at parties)  
> this is going to be half serious and a lil depressing and half humorous and... well.... still a lil depressing keith's had a rough life  
> regardless, thanks for reading!

Keith knew he would be leaving again even before he got there. In hindsight, it was ridiculous for him to believe otherwise - that he would be able to stay. Maybe graduate at the Garrison, attend a university in-state, get a music performance or education degree and live his life out in the same town, maybe work as a director or private lessons instructor at the Garrison. It was a stupid idea, really, but it showed up half-formed in Keith’s brain during one night where he couldn’t fall asleep, and he delved into the temptation and found himself exploring it with his entire heart. As the days went on, it formed bigger and bigger in his head until it gradually grew to large and the sharp tug of gravity pulled it down to Keith’s chest, a bubble - no, _beach-ball sized_ glimmer of what he all-so-strongly knew to be _hope._

He knew what hope meant. Hope, to Keith, meant sleepless nights and his breath catching in his throat, speechless (Keith always hates to be speechless), and crushed feelings when it, inevitably, fails to work out. Despite that little voice buried deep, deep in his consciousness, echoing phrases he’s whispered to himself since Day One, the first thing he has ever remembered (there’s a melancholy feel to it - it’s bittersweet; his first memory isn’t of his mother, or father, or any family at all - it is himself, because that’s all there is. That’s all there ever was - _Keith._ He speaks the name out in the dark, middle of the night, into the hanging silence that is thicker than blood and water, and not diluted blood with water - the thickness added together, creating the substance of himself, because Keith does not know blood, nor water, so he has created what he imagines them to be like, and shoves it so deep inside himself he thinks he might choke on it), Keith held onto that little bit of hope and watched it swell underneath the weight of his fingers. As it got bigger, the little voice became louder - yet, still Keith ignored it in favor of another late night with the group of friends he’s created for himself.

It was a stupid idea - and now Keith is paying the price for it.

His foster family was kind to him; they didn’t treat him as a member of them, but they didn’t alienate him, either. They were separate entities living in the same hollow shell of a home. If Keith needed something, they were there for the moment. If they needed something, Keith was there for the moment. Otherwise, they passed each other with the barest trace of a smile, nodding, then parted ways. They let Keith into their home for the financial benefits, and Keith repaid them himself by being away as much as possible. He didn’t know what it felt like to have an intruder in his home - the only home he has ever had has been himself, and nobody has felt the need to even ring the doorbell - but he imagines it is invasive and uncomfortable, so when the Garrison’s head band director noticed him in a dimly-lit practice room one day, going through his scales, Keith never mentioned anything to them about it. He didn’t ask for the sum that would allow him to partake in his music. He didn’t ask for the time of the director, who promised him that he would always have a spot in their ensemble. He didn’t even give himself a chance to wonder at the time what he could’ve become if he wasn’t so - well. Keith. If the universe didn’t look down upon him like vermin, Keith wonders now what he could’ve been if everything turned out okay.

The family he stayed with kept him around for the entire school year; it was nice to be able to finally finish out a year at the same school he started in. He made friends and, thanks to the hopeful glimmer, let his walls crumble down faster than he would’ve normally. He got to know a couple of his teachers, something he’d never even thought of before then. He even made some promises - and, really looking back, _that_ is the worst thing he could’ve done. Not hope - hope isn’t real, hope is a figment of his and everybody’s imagination. Hope isn’t tangible, but promises? Promises are. Promises are the most tangible things, most powerful things, Keith knows. When Keith makes a promise, he’d rather die than break them.

And he was foolish enough to make some. Not just one - multiple. Keith holds promises higher than anything else; people in his life, whether he invited them in or they picked the lock unlatched, have never taken their promises seriously. They pluck them out of the air and rip apart both ends, tearing them into a jagged and frayed, broken idea, then discard it for Keith to pick up the pieces and use it to try and fix the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be.

Keith used the hope he developed to _stupidly,_ so _childishly,_ and tore his own morals in half.

When the father of the home announced Keith’s departure in mid-June, Keith felt his stomach sinking below his knees. He thought of the Garrison and its high, sleek walls, of its shiny marble floors, of the privileged students that attend (and he considered himself a part of), of the small, stuffy practice room he pulled a chair into every morning with his clarinet and just. Played. He played for his parents, who he never knew. He played for his unborn siblings, who he yearned for a relationship with. He played for the Garrison and everything it stood for - determination, wealth, intelligence, genius, Keith. He played for the music, which he considers such a big part of himself that if it ever left him the way his future did, he would surely shatter into the hollow shell of a person faster than he imagined himself to break. Most of all, Keith played for himself - for all his broken dreams, for his love for notes, for the sound of the reed and the keys, for the clarinet that wasn’t just a clarinet - it was an extension of his body, another limb his fingers ran across so intimately and knowingly and _passionately._

Keith chided himself as he packed his few things. He scolded himself as he waited for the day his social worker would pick him up. He yelled at himself as soon as he got into the car, and, when the worker told him he would be travelling to the next state over, to a family that offered to foster him immediately after Keith was discarded, he _hated himself._ He hated himself onto the next street, into the next town, the next state. He despised himself when they drove into a nice, high-end smaller city with high-rises in the downtown and expensive houses in the suburbs. He abhorred himself when the social worker had to roll down the window to punch in a four-digit code that gave them access to a gated community. And Keith _loathed_ himself the second they pulled up to the home - the kind of house that Keith could not even dream of. When he over-hoped, he crossed the line here. Keith _never_ envisioned himself, such a sticky part of the System, even stepping _foot_ into a house of this caliber. Yet, here he is, trembling fingers pushing the door open to the front seat of the Sedan, clutching a small duffel bag to his chest in one arm and holding the case to the most important thing in his entire life in the other. His caseworker leads him up the cobblestone walkway to a set of mahogany, grandioso double doors and rings the doorbell once. Keith swallows. There’s a thickness in his throat that prevents him from doing so successfully.

As a silhouette of a tall, broad man appears behind the blurry glass panels that take up the top part of the doors, Keith allows himself to panic. Why would they want him? Why is he here? Why would a family who lives like _this,_ so lavishly, offer to house him? They certainly don’t need the money, judging from the extravagance of the home. Is this for charity? Is Keith a _charity case?_

The scraping of a deadbolt gives way to the knob of the Keith’s right door turning, and then the door pulls open, revealing a dark-skinned man with purely white hair. The sight makes him blink - not a grey hair in sight. Just _white._ He doesn’t even seem that old - mid-forties, _maybe?_ The hair on his head is long, all of it reaching nearly his shoulders, and the beard on his face is overgrown as well, but still seems sophisticated. Keith nearly shrinks back when the icy blue eyes belonging to the regal-looking man fall on his skinny form. The man’s mouth is set in a sharp, stiff line that has Keith panicking even more, but soon gives way to a warm, welcoming smile.

“Hello, there,” is the first thing he says, the skin next to his eyes crinkling as they squint into his happiness. He has a thick accent - English? Keith thinks it’s English, though he can’t be sure. He doesn’t come across different accents too often. “Come in, please!”

Keith blindly follows the social worker through the door as the man steps aside. His mind is numb - he’s dissociating a bit, purely from confusion and apprehension and, oh, yeah, he just tends to do that sometimes, too. Keith sort-of feels like this is a dream. As his scuffed, ratty black Converse cross the threshold into the house, he shivers; they land on a mat before the door. Keith looks up to see a glittering chandelier hanging above their heads. Directly to his right is an archway to a formal sitting area, complete with another, smaller chandelier and a fancy, real fireplace - not one of the electronic ones a couple of his foster homes have dorned. Opposite that, to his left is a formal dining room. His eyes widen at the table - polished, dark wood, seating eight, and, oh, surprise, surprise - a _third_ chandelier. Keith thinks these people like chandeliers. He turns his head to look in front of him; there’s a walkway to another part of the house, and next to that, a spiral wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. An oiled banister overlooks the entrance hall. Beyond that, Keith - if he stretches his body enough - can point out some closed doors.

This. This is _not_ where he is supposed to be. Keith is at a loss for words - he feels resentment pooling in his gut, though he doesn’t know what _for._ This home is so - so…

The man leads them into the formal sitting area. He lowers himself down into a nice armchair facing away from the window. Keith’s caseworker decides on a mirroring armchair, leaving Keith to have full access to the sofa opposite the chairs. He hesitantly sits down, not letting go of his belongings. Just in case (Just in case _what?_ Keith snorts to himself), he tucks his clarinet case underneath the duffel bag.

“I am Alfor King,” the man smiles warmly again, nodding to the worker and then Keith. Keith feels his heart pick up in his chest when he does so. He doesn’t smile back. Keith tries to keep his expression void of anything, even - _especially_ \- shock. If he really _is_ a charity case, he doesn’t want to give this… _Alfor King_ the satisfaction of his awe. “You must be Keith. It is wonderful to meet you.”

Keith averts his gaze. He can’t bring himself to look into Alfor King’s eyes - the blue overtakes anything Keith has ever seen.

As his case worker and Alfor King discuss things Keith doesn’t listen to, he keeps his eyes trained on the wooden floor. He sits there for maybe ten minutes, the same thought appearing in his head through little, bright flashes, until Alfor King and the worker rise to their feet. Keith follows suit; he speaks to the worker his goodbyes and watches from the doorway as the worker gets in the Sedan and drives away down the street, leaving Keith alone again. Alone in this monster of a house, with this royal king of a man (Keith almost laughs), and the chest-heaving realization that he has to start all over again.

The door clicks shut as soon as he can’t see the car anymore. Keith turns around. Alfor King is a lot closer than he expected - the man is about a foot away from him, staring down not unkindly. He seems to notice Keith’s uncomfort at how close he is and takes a few steps backwards.

“Good afternoon, Keith. How was the trip?”

Keith, having nowhere to go, hangs his head. He mumbles, “Fine.”

“Excellent. Well, as I mentioned before, my name is Alfor King. You may call me what you wish - Alfor is fine. Whatever makes you comfortable,” he smiles again, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

This comes as a (slight) relief. In one home, they forced him to call them “Mom” and “Dad”. The words left a sour taste in his mouth. Before he can think of the memory any further, he squeezes his fist so hard his nails dig painfully into his palms and he forgets what he was going to delve into. _Good._ He doesn’t want to remember that ever again.

“I have a daughter around your age. You are in high school, correct?” At Keith’s curt nod, Alfor continues, “What year?”

“Junior,” he mutters lowly.

“Ah - Allura, my daughter, is a senior. I will get her to show you to your room. Now, I don’t know if you can tell, but this is my first time fostering a child-”

Oh, Keith can tell. He’s being so… friendly. If it _wasn’t_ his first time, he wouldn’t be so open in showing vulnerability. He wouldn’t be so kind and open and loose.

“-So I am not experienced. I do not know much about the system. But, if you would like to, I am always here to talk.” Keith doesn’t doubt it. All first-time foster parents pull the same spiel. He watches Alfor as he turns towards the second level, cups his hands around his mouth, and bellows, “ _Allura!_ ”

Keith flinches before Alfor can turn around and notice. He listens to the groaning of hinges, then the patter of light footsteps, before a very pretty teenage girl stops at the railing, fingers curling around the wooden banister. She has the same dark skin and shock of white hair as her father - so it _isn’t_ old age, just a…  strange family trait? Keith has never seen such bright, light hair on somebody before. Her hair is down and wavy, trailing thick down her back and pushes away from her face with a golden headband. The dress she wears is purple and expensive-looking. Allura King looks every bit as regal and important as her father. Is this all there is? Two people, living in this expansive, expensive building?

“Allura,” says Alfor, voice dripping with affection, “this is Keith. Keith, meet my daughter, Allura. Keith is a junior, so he’ll be attending Altea with you.”

Allura’s cold eyes narrow in on Keith. She must not want him here. He must be a decision made by Alfor and Alfor alone - he is intruding on their father/daughter territory. He refuses to both inch backwards and meet her chilling gaze.

At least, that’s what he thinks, until her body visibly brightens and a smile lights up her entire face. Her first words aren’t “ _Welcome, Keith!_ ” or, _“I’ll show you the couch, I guess._ ” or even a grunt. What leaves her mouth is a sentence that leaves cold dread dribbling down Keith’s spine.

“Is that a clarinet case?”

He freezes. He didn’t think they would care - in some of the, uh, poorer houses, they’ve always tried to pawn it off of him in exchange for money. He’s kept it with him by sheer force of will and desperation. He didn’t think this would be a problem, not here - they don’t need the money from the clarinet (But, man, would they get money - as the only thing he inherited from his dead parents, he’s kept it in prime condition; not a single scratch, blemish, _anything_ on it. It’s worth thousands), so why would they care about it? He didn’t hide it well enough. _Fuck._

“I-” Keith’s voice comes out panic-stricken and cracking. He clears his throat and rushes out a, “Yes, it’s the only thing I have left from my parents - I won’t practice in the house, I promise, don’t-”

Allura raises her eyebrows. Her mouth twists into a frown; she crosses the room and descends down the spiraling staircase. Alfor says nothing. He watches her with a sort of proud curiosity that leaves Keith puzzled.

As soon as Allura is on their level, she approaches Keith slowly, touching her father’s shoulder as she passes. Keith forces himself to keep his feet grounded, though years of foster care make himself want to back up.

“Relax, Keith,” she murmurs, the frown turning up into a soft smile. “I’m not going to take your clarinet. It is your property.” She has the same thick accent as her father, though hers is a _tiny_ bit softer. Up close, Keith can see flecks of violet in her otherwise blue eyes. “However, I _would_ love to look at it. May I?”

Keith hesitates; by her tone, he can tell she is genuinely asking for permission. If he says no, Keith knows she will back down. On a normal circumstance, Keith would guard the instrument with his life. It is only for his eyes - and his fingers, and ears, and music stand, and him _alone._ But this is the first time somebody has ever actually looked at it not with just curiosity, but also fascination - Keith gets the sense that she is not just interested in it to be interested in it for him. Allura King actually wants to see the clarinet for it being a clarinet, not just a piece of Keith’s life.

And that, Keith tells himself, is the _only_ reason he drops the duffel bag next to the door and follows her past her father, down the hallway. The hallway next to the staircase leads to a large family room/den - there’s a huge flatscreen TV mounted on one wall with a DirectTV box on a TV stand underneath it, along with _so many gaming systems._ Along the same wall, in the space that is left, are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, but instead of books, there is an expansive collection of video games and movies. The room is brightly lit from sunlight streaming in through the entire other wall of just windows overlooking the grassy, large backyard. Off to the left, Keith can see the beginnings of a pool.

Allura leads him across the hardwood to tile. A smaller dining table has been set up on the outskirts of the kitchen, where it connects with the den through only a half-walled countertop. She motions for him to set the clarinet down on glass table; he does, and without prompting, flips up the latches and gently opens the top of the case.

Behind them, Alfor whistles lowly, making Keith jump. He glances behind him. Alfor is staring at the case with sparkling eyes - he looks unto it fondly, like he is remembering a time that is no longer. Or maybe he is just impressed with the sight of it. Keith would be, too. It is a beautiful instrument - black wood with golden keys, flawless.

Allura breathes out a, “That is beautiful. You do play, don’t you?” Keith nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices her slowly evolving smirk. “Are you any good?”

He scowls. “I’m good,” he snaps defensively. “I’ve been playing my entire life. I taught myself.”

Her smirk is growing wider by the second. “Impressive. Play it for me.”

“No!” He shuts the case. “Why should I?”

Instead of giving him a clear answer, she spins around to face Alfor. “Oh, father - he should join!”

Alfor chuckles, eyeing Keith. “Don’t force him into anything, daughter. Keith can join if he would like to.” Clearing his throat, Alfor straightens himself and looks at Keith. “I was not aware you are a musician.”

Swallowing, Keith shrugs. He glances at the case; it holds everything for him. “Hardly,” he says, voice soft. “I just. Like to play sometimes.”

“That is what being a musician is! Now, I don’t know you, Keith, and I don’t want to freak out out. You just arrived here, but I can tell you have a special talent. I haven’t even heard you play,” Keith notes that he doesn’t say ‘yet’, but the word hangs in the air, implied, “but I know that anybody who takes such good care of something the way you do to that instrument means you hold in highly in your heart, whether because it is something to remember something by-” Keith’s heart clenches in his chest. “-Or because it is what you love. I will not ask you to play for me - as a musician myself, I know performances are most heartfelt not when somebody requests your music, but when you feel like giving it out yourself.”

“You’re a - a musician?” Keith asks.

“I am the head music director for Altea High School, the school that Allura attends - as will you. I dabble in every instrument, but am particularly well-versed in the bassoon. Allura here is the head drum major for the marching band. She is an all-state flautist.”

Allura smiles proudly, nodding, as she laces her fingers together in front of her.

“Have you ever been a part of a school band?”

Keith shakes his head. He glances at the clarinet again. “I could never afford to join,” he mumbles. “I don’t exactly have a lot of money.”

“I suppose not. Well, I am offering a place on the Mighty Altean Lion Band. Free of charge, of course - as somebody living under the roof of my home, it makes me responsible for you. And I will be responsible for your payments on everything, including trips, rental of a marching instrument, uniforms, clothing - anything.”

Keith’s breath hitches in his throat - he stares at Alfor, wide-eyed, heart hammering in his chest. Alfor is… offering to pay for him to be in band? Marching band _and_ concert band? Keith used to think, even if he got the money to be able to pay for concert band and its uniform, he could _never_ afford to do _marching band._ The expenses are ridiculous, and Keith - well. Keith wouldn’t want to risk his clarinet by running around outside with it. But if Alfor is offering to cover the rental of a separate instrument just to protect his clarinet? Keith is, for the second time, at a loss for words. His throat tingles, and he blinks repeatedly to stop himself from tearing up.

This is just…

This is the nicest thing _anybody_ has done for him. Ever. And he’s been in Alfor’s home for, what, fifteen minutes now? Twenty minutes?

Alfor smiles. “I will give you time to consider it, of course. Band - especially marching band - is a lot of effort. It takes diligence, perseverance, dedication. But if you would like to join, the offer is on the table from now until summer band starts, which is the first week of August.”

Okay. Okay, if he’s offering-

Keith isn’t just going to sit around and not take the offer because he’s never done it before. If Alfor is serious - and while Keith doesn’t know him well, he knows that Alfor is completely serious - then Keith isn’t just going to turn down one of the things that he’s wanted his entire high school career so far.

“You will?” Keith asks. “Just - you’ll pay for me?”

Allura and Alfor exchange wide smiles. Allura steps forward, slowly reaching out to rest a hand on Keith’s shoulder. For some reason, Keith lets her; he glances down at the long, nimble fingers like it is an entirely new world. For him, it is - those fingers, that hand, these _people_ \- they represent what seems to be a turning point in his so-far shitty life. Keith doesn’t know what he did to deserve this. Of course, there is always bad in good - but this is the first time in, well. _Forever,_ that Keith thinks he might actually be happy here.

“Of course, Keith,” Allura beams. “Musicians have to stick together, right?”

At Keith’s numb nod, she chuckles, pulling away. “Get your clarinet and bag - is that all you have, really? You’ll need some clothes for band, of course, right, Father? We can deal with that when the times comes, I suppose. Get your stuff and follow me, I’ll show you to your room. The last one, right, Father?”

Alfor nods. There’s that same proud expression on his face - and this time, Keith knows why. This time, Keith can tell why Alfor is so evidently proud of Allura.

Keith doesn’t remember ever taking them up on the offer, but apparently Allura knows what his answer will be already. He picks up the case and clutches it to his chest. Before following Allura up the smaller, less grand staircase on this side of the hallway, he turns to Alfor and, as soft as he can while still being audible, whispers, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Keith.”

Keith darts into the entrance hall for his bag and takes the stairs two at a time to catch up with Allura.


	2. through findings and endings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their final day of summer before band starts, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge try to make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a couple months since i updated her, but i'm here! in the middle of marching season! dying! sorry this took so long i've been busy and ap classes suck  
> this is gonna alternate povs per chapter, so here's lance! the leadership camp stuff will probably start in two chapters. and hopefully that won't be in four months, but i make no promises (,:

Okay, Lance is  _ probably  _ going to suffocate.

And die.

He holds his breath, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to make it bleed so he isn’t tempted to cave and inhale through his mouth. The fingers that plug his nose tremble harder with each passing second. Lance has to dig his nails into his palm to stop himself from thrashing around. Moving will only make himself louder, and the whole point of not breathing is so he isn’t heard-

Out of the corner of his eye, Lance thinks he sees something move. His heart rate picks up even faster than it already is, going from  _ ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum  _ to  _ ba-dumba-dumba-dumba-dum _ . What might even be moving, Lance has absolutely no clue, seeing as how he’s in a fucking cabinet.  _ Oh my god what if it’s a mouse- _

And now - now he thinks he might actually die. His free hand is clenched, pounding silently on his thigh. Lance’s eyes widen as his vision fizzles white for a second. He’s about to just, uh, let himself die for the sake of it when a voice breaks the apprehensive silence by shrieking, “ _ Lance. I give up, okay? I forfeit. You win. Come out, Jesus Christ- _ ” 

Lance lets go of his face and opens his mouth. He inhales deeply, falling forward as far as he can. A rumble of footsteps approach the cabinet and, in a second, light is streaming into his eyes, Pidge’s flabbergasted face mere inches from his. 

“What the hell, Lance?! Why are you breathing so heavily?” Pidge backs up a bit. He looks extremely concerned. If Lance wasn’t breathing the sweet, sweet smell of oxygen into his body and, like, he doesn’t know,  _ reviving himself from the dead  _ then he’d tease him about it.

‘ _ Awww, _ ’ he’d coo. ‘ _ Are you worried about me? I’m flattered, Pidgey. _ ’ 

Instead, he chokes out, “I _ …  _ was… holding… my… breath…”

Hunk appears in his line of sight. Well, more like his shins do. Even squatting, he’s too tall to be visible to Lance in this position. “Lance? Are you alive?” 

“I’m… like… half… alive…” Lance promises. He gives himself a few more seconds to even out his breathing before throwing his arm and head out and grinning up to his two best friends. “Wanna help me out of the cabinet?” 

Seven minutes, two cinematic tears, countless bruises, and even more swears later, Lance is back on his feet. He rubs at his elbows, wincing. “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to hide in the cabinet.”

Pidge hops up onto the counter. He takes off his glasses to polish them on the hem of his shirt, squinting at Lance, then at the open cabinet, then Lance again. Lance recognizes his expression to be his one of thinking. Finally, he says, “How did you even fit in there? I counted for ten seconds. If it took five minutes to get you out-”

“Seven minutes,” Hunk corrects helpfully.

“-then how on Earth did you get  _ inside  _ in ten seconds? Ten  _ fast  _ seconds. I cheated.” Pidge shoots Hunk a mock glare and puts his glasses back on his face. He turns his head this way and that to check for any smudges he missed. There aren’t any - there never are. 

Lance shrugs. “I was determined to win. And I did,” he points out with a smirk.

“You always win hide-and-seek. You’re impossible to find.”

“Yup,” he beams. “I’m innovative.” 

Pidge nudges Hunk with his elbow and mutters under his breath, “More like irritating.” 

Lance narrows his eyes. “I heard that.” 

“You were supposed to!” Pidge slides off the counter and smooths out his shirt. He nudges Keith’s foot with his own as he sweeps past him, heading for the sofa. “I’m bored. I don’t feel like playing again. And I don’t wanna play video games, I think the TV is messing up my eyesight.”

Neither Hunk, nor Lance decide to remind Pidge of the fact that his eyesight is already messed up. Instead, Hunk suggests that they get food. Now that Hunk mentions it, Lance is hungry. Plus, while they’re out, Lance can go through the car wash just in time to impress all the band leadership tomorrow. Yes, he can see it now; everyone crowding around his car, fingers ghosting over the glossy, new paint job. They take one look inside, and the interior is clean, no fast food trash or old receipts lying around. There’s just a vacuumed floor, one of those air conditioner things that hang from the rearview mirror, and his pillows. Because, obviously, there has to be pillows. How else are you going to sit comfortably? 

Lance is too busy daydreaming about a clean car that will make everyone jealous that he misses where they decide to go. He snaps out of it as soon as Pidge throws his keyring at him. Lance catches it by his saxophone shaped keychain. He follows Pidge and Hunk out of Hunk’s house and skips down to his car.

She’s beautiful - the true love of his life. If he never gets a girlfriend or boyfriend, at least he’ll always have Geraldine. She’s the best lady anyone could ever ask for. She’s sturdy, reliable, sleek - Lance wasn’t lying when he thought about the new paint job. At the beginning of the summer, he’d finally saved up enough money to get one. Now, instead of being old, chipped and silver, she’s new, shiny, and blue. Her name is still Geraldine, of course, but sometimes Lance reverts to calling her “Old Blue”. She loves the nickname, if her purr is anything to go by.

Lance unlocks her and slides into the driver’s seat. He’s greeted by the nostalgic, calming smell of the ocean - or, at least, what part of it Scentsy has managed to bottle up into an ocean-themed car air freshener. Pidge all but screams, “ _ Shotgun! _ ” and races down the steps to throw open the passenger’s door. Pidge looks so small in the passenger’s seat; he swats Lance’s hand away before Lance can ruffle his hair. “I’m not your son, stop trying to touch my hair.”

“You are my son. Baby Pidge. So cute.” 

Pidge scowls. “Shut it. Give me the aux cord.” 

“Uh, nuh-uh! Driver gets to pick the music,” Lance smiles and fondly strokes the dashboard. “Isn’t that right, Geraldine?” 

Behind them, Hunk opens the minivan’s sliding back door and gets in. He grumbles about not being able to fit well, to which Lance chipperly exclaims, “At least I drive a minivan and not some small car! You always make fun of me for my car-”

“No we don’t!” Pidge and Hunk say at the same time. Hunk continues, “I love Geraldine!  _ We  _ love Geraldine!”

“-Then Matt and Allura always make fun of me for my car-” they nod in agreement. “-But I’m the only one who can fit our entire posse in here at once, with a seat to spare.” 

“Please don’t call us a posse,” begs Pidge. “We aren’t a posse. We’re just guys and Allura who like to hang out and drive around in your car.”

“A posse is a group of people who share the same characteristics,” Hunk chimes in from the back. “And we all like to hang out and drive around in Lance’s car, so. A posse.”

Lance throws his arms in the air. “ _ Thank  _ you, Hunk!” He sticks the key in the ignition, presses the brake, and listens as Geraldine purrs to life. “Have I mentioned I love the sound of Geraldine starting up?” 

“Yes.”

“Every time you turn her on.” 

Lance grins. “Well, I love the sound of Geraldine starting up. She’s like a-”

“Lion roaring. We get it, Lance.”

“Can I have the aux cord?” Pidge asks again. Lance fights him for control over it. It soon turns into a mini skirmish - Hunk has to unbuckle to get closer and pry them apart from each other. “But - but I want to play-” 

Lance throws his head back, groaning loudly and dramatically. He shifts into drive and releases the brake, slowly putting pressure on the gas. “Fine! You can play  _ three  _ songs. But then Hunk turns on Rihanna and  _ we. Are. Done. _ ” After a second of Pidge’s gleeful silence, Lance adds, “And none of that… weird stuff, either. No whale sounds.”

Hunk huffs. “Whale sounds are nice,” he pouts.

“Yeah, okay, whale sounds  _ are  _ nice, but I want to dance. You can’t dance to whale sounds.” Lance nears the exit of the neighborhood and asks, “Pidge, hurry up and put the music on. Where are we going? I need to know where to turn.” 

“In-N-Out,” Pidge mumbles. He messes with the volume button for a good five minutes. By the time he actually plays the first song, they’ll already be there and Lance won’t get to hear a single Rihanna song. After Lance barks at him again, Pidge says, “I’m trying to turn it on, but it’s not - oh, okay, nevermind. Here it is,” Pidge twists in his seat to give Lance the most insidious smirk he’s ever seen in his entire hot, young fucking  _ life.  _ Lance gets ready to hear whale sounds. 

Instead, just as he’s getting onto the highway, the  _ loudest thing he’s ever fucking heard  _ blares through the speakers. Lance shrieks, nearly pissing his pants. The wheel swerves sharply to the left. Lance shrieks again, because he almost just crashed into a huge oil rig. His life is actually flashing before his eyes - oh, look, there’s his brother, Jax, being born. Oh, now Lance is entering middle school. Fuck that guy. And now high school - his first football game, aww, fetus Lance with a crooked shako like a dumbass-

“ _ PIDGE, I AM GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU-! _ ” Lance all but bellows. Pidge’s small hand darts out to twist the volume button down. “ _ Air raid sirens?  _ Are you  _ fucking  _ kidding me? I could’ve crashed! We almost died!  _ My life was flashing before my eyes.” _

“Mine was, too,” Hunk groans. Lance looks in the rearview to see Hunk looking a sickly shade of green. Hunk meets his gaze and shakes his head. “I won’t throw up in Geraldine, I promise. Just - try to keep the swerving to a minimum, please?” 

“I didn’t realize how loud it was! And air raid sirens are  _ nice.  _ They’re calming.” 

“ _ What?! _ ” Lance would’ve thrown his arms in the air out of pure exasperation if he wasn’t clutching onto the wheel for dear life.  _ Three and nine, three and nine. It’s okay.  _ “They mean we’re getting  _ bombed! _ ” 

“Roasted,” Pidge supplies weakly. He unplugs his phone from the aux cord and passes it back to Hunk. “Here, I don’t feel like playing anything else. Turn on Rihanna.” 

Lance isn’t in a Rihanna mood anymore. He’s in one of his rare, infuriated moods. He isn’t even mad at Pidge - Pidge knows it, of course, he just feels bad - he’s more angry with himself for losing control. And, yeah, it might not be his fault entirely, but he still could’ve endangered Pidge and Hunk’s lives. If he hadn’t’ve gotten the car under control as quickly as he did, they seriously could’ve died. 

That’s one of the bad things about driving. You’re responsible for everything. Everyone on board’s life is in your hands. In Lance’s cupped palms sit a mini Pidge and Hunk, and he has the ability to keep them there, safe, or make a fist and utterly crush them. He knows he’s able to drive - he did pass his driving test, after all - but he still has his doubts sometimes. And one of them is that, someday, he’s going to be in a situation like this, panicky and unsettled with his two best friends in the car, and just. 

Forget how to drive. 

Legally, he’s not supposed to have both of them in here at the same time. He’s only supposed to have, at most, one non-family member in the car with him without adult supervision until he turns eighteen. But Lance is only sixteen - he’ll turn seventeen soon - like,  _ really  _ soon - but still. It’s kinda illegal. And, of course, if he gets pulled over, he can always say that Hunk’s his brother. If the officer’s white, he’ll probably believe him. White people mistake him and Lance for brothers just because they’re both brown. Nevermind that Hunk is Hawaiian and Lance is, um,  _ not. _

“Nah, I want to hear Hunk’s music,” Lance exhales slowly, to calm himself down. “Hunky, turn on your dance stuff. Pidgey and I can turn up.” He sends a grin Pidge’s way. The younger boy smiles back. He loosens up a bit, and Lance is relieved. He doesn’t want Pidge thinking it’s his fault. Like, it  _ is,  _ but. Lance still doesn’t want him to blame himself. 

He can’t see Hunk, but he knows the big guy just perked up. A few seconds later, and Hunk’s electro beats are soft through the speakers. Lance turns it up just enough to where he can still concentrate on driving, but the bass thumps hard enough they can feel it. The music pumps through their blood, hearts in time with the beat - as it gets ready to drop, Lance’s chest feels all achy and weird, like he’s about to have a panic attack. 

Then the beat drops. He’s dancing in his seat, Pidge is thrashing around in some sort of wild Pidge movement, and Hunk is the only one looking good. That’s how it always it. He smiles to himself, fingers tapping along to the rhythm on the wheel. Lance loves how it always is. 

Two of Hunk’s electro songs later, Lance parks in the parking lot of In-N-Out. He follows Pidge and Hunk inside after checking around five times to make sure Geraldine is locked. 

There aren’t many people inside, which is surprising, to be quite honest. On a Saturday afternoon, it’s usually packed. Their friend Rolo is working the register, one of the paper hats on his head. His brows raise at the sight of them. 

“Hey, guys,” Rolo yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. “What’s up?”

“We want burgers.” Pidge gets straight to the point. The corner of Lance’s mouth quirks up.

“Yeah, I thought that’s why you’d come here. To a burger joint,” Rolo snorts. He motions for them to continue. “Hit me.” 

They all order and argue over the bill - in the end, by pure force (he pushes them all out of the way), Hunk swipes his card and punches in the pin before Lance can overtake him again. Rolo watches, an amused sort-of smile on his face. He calls over his shoulder for the order, and as they wait, chats about the next day’s camp.

“You  _ are  _ going, right?” Lance asks, leaning against the counter. 

“Dude, you’re trumpet section leader. You gotta go,” Hunk says.

Rolo’s mouth twists into a grimace. “I don’t  _ want  _ to, but yeah, I’m going. Man, I can’t believe summer’s already over. We’re gonna be upperclassmen.” He shoots a look at Pidge. “‘Cept for you. You’re still an underclassman.” 

Pidge shrugs, “I’ll get there.” 

“Just wait until you take all the AP classes,” Rolo groans. “They  _ suck. _ ”

“I thought you only took regular classes?” Hunk frowns.

Rolo smirks. He turns around to help his co-workers carry the trays of food and hands one to each boy on the other side of the counter. “Doesn’t mean they don’t suck. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” 

Pidge, Hunk and Lance bid him a goodbye and make their way to their normal booth. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Pidge mutters, “I already take AP classes.”

“Rolo’s a dumbass,” replies Lance. He sets his tray on the table. Hunk and Pidge take one side, Lance sits alone on the other. He picks up his burger - double cheeseburger cooked animal style, his all-time  _ favorite  _ \- and digs in.

By the end of it, Pidge has laughed so hard he nearly peed, Hunk is very,  _ very  _ red in the face, and Lance is smirking triumphantly. They toss their food in the trash as they leave - Lance calls a goodbye to Rolo and catches up with the other two. When he gets in the car, it’s Hunk who sits shotgun, while Pidge is banished to the back. 

After they go through the car wash (and Hunk yells about the octopus tentacles of the washing thing being scary), Lance drops Hunk and Pidge off at their respective houses. He gets dragged into Pidge’s house for, like, half an hour, twenty of which he spent  _ obliviating  _ Pidge’s older brother Matt, his best friend Shiro, and their friend (and Shiro’s crush), Allura, in Mario Kart 8. As he lapped them (he was Waluigi, of course, and kept screaming “WAAA” when he threw a shell. Most of them didn’t even hit their targets. Matt was Toad, Shiro was Link, and Allura surprised them all by choosing Bowser), Allura told them about the kid that lives with them. Like, a foster kid, or something. Lance was too busy “DESTROYING SHIRO’S ASS”, in his own words, which he denied ever saying later, to give his full attention. The other ten minutes were spent cheering on Pidge and Matt as they battled against Shiro and Allura in Wii Sports tennis. 

Shiro and Allura won. They all chalked it up to the fact that they are an actual god and goddess.

The second Lance pulls into the driveway of his house, he lets out a huge scream and slams on the brakes as a large black-and-brown blur speeds around the side of the house and darts in front of Geraldine. Lance takes a deep breath, slapping a hand over his frantically pounding heart.

“ _ BARACK - DIOS, LANCE, CARAJO-”  _ Lance’s oldest sister, Adriana, appears right behind the blur. She’s still in the Spongebob pajama pants Lance got her for Christmas last year, despite it being - Lance glances at the clock - almost four in the afternoon. Adriana bends over, hands on her knees. Lance turns off his car and gets out, making sure to get his keys before slamming the door shut. Just as he turns to ask Adriana what is happening, he’s suddenly on the ground, taken down by ninety pounds of pure German Shepherd force. Lance bursts into laughter. He reaches up to scratch his dog behind the ear, squeezing his eyes shut as dog tongue slides all over his face. He can’t even find it in himself to be grossed out.

But Damian, his little brother, sure can. His voice calls out from next to Adriana (did he just, like, teleport? Lance swears he wasn’t there three seconds ago), “Ew, Lance, you just got to first base with a dog.” 

“Ana, did you hear that?” Adriana snorts. Lance peers out from around Barack Obama, the German Shepherd currently suffocating him by sitting on his chest. Analeigh, his other older sister, has joined them. Like Adriana, she’s in her pajama pants, but hers are Powerpuff Girls themed. Damian’s are Wonder Woman. Seriously, what is up with everyone wearing the pants he gave them- “Lance  _ finally  _ got to first base!” 

“Why are you all out here?” Lance asks, dropping his head back so it hits the pavement. He winces, then continues, “What, is Abuela gonna come out to greet me, too? Have I been gone that long?” 

“Take us for ice cream, Lance.” 

He stares at Analeigh. She levels her gaze. Adriana and Damian flank her, crossing their arms. They look like some sort of weird trio. If Damian was the one in the middle, it would look perfect; Adriana and Analeigh are like carbon copies of each other (and their mother when she was their age), with the exception of Analeigh’s glasses and Adriana’s dark hair fading into blonde. 

Finally, Lance huffs. “Why can’t you take yourself? You both have cars-”

“We don’t feel like driving,” Adriana is already walking to the passenger door, not bothering to wait for Lance’s agreement. “And Damian doesn’t have a car. He’s a little boy.”

“I am  _ not  _ a little boy!” Damian exclaims, jogging over to follow Analeigh into the backseat. Lance pushes Barack Obama off of his chest and pushes himself to his feet. “I am a man!” 

Lance, despite himself, snorts. He throws his hands up in surrender when Damian shoots him a nasty look. “Hey, calm down, big man, or you’ll be walking for ice cream!” Lance grins, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He gets back into the driver’s seat and turns Geraldine on. “Is nobody gonna put Barack inside?” 

His sisters look at each other, challenge twinkling viciously in their dark eyes. They both open their mouths - probably to shout at Damian to put the dog inside - but close them as soon as Damian groans, sliding the back door open.

“Do I have to do  _ everything? _ ” Damian complains. “Barack! C’mere!” 

“Wait, wait, what? Damian, no-” 

“Aw, shit, Dame-”

“ _ I just cleaned Geraldine out today- _ ” 

The door slides shut again. Instead of there being four teenagers in Lance’s minivan, there’s four teenagers and a dog. Lance glares at his little brother through the rearview mirror. Damian shrugs. “What can I say? He wanted to go for a ride.” 

“I should make  _ you  _ go for a walk,” Lance mumbles under his breath, but shifts the car into reverse anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the kudos/comments so far!! i have a couple other klance fics if you want to read them; a discord au fic, and i'm working on a surgeon/grey's au, along with a zombie au for a project i'm doing. can u tell i love aus?????


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith meets The Gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well here it is

Keith will never get over how nice the sun looks as it raises over the horizon. He tucks his elbows underneath his chin; the coolness of his skin contrasts with the heat radiating off the window. It’s peaceful; Keith hasn’t felt this relaxed in… forever. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this relaxed. 

It’s been more than a month since he joined the King family of two - the King duo. It is still a duo - Keith’s entrance isn’t about to make it a trio, not to a pair that has been together for nearly eighteen years now. Plus, Keith is a Kogane. Even if he is the last of the living, he holds the title with something resembling pride, something resembling dedication. Nothing resembling love - the word is foreign to his ears.

Though the King family hasn’t expanded by one, they’ve allowed Keith in deeper than he has been before; they buy him things - so far, he’s gotten new clothes and some reeds and  _ music -  _ so much  _ music.  _ He’s been gifted some pieces, and some come from Allura (some lower flute pieces can be played on the clarinet with practice), others come from websites he’s printed off the internet, most come from the expansive collection of scores from Alfor’s study. It isn’t so much of a study than a music room. There’s a grand piano and instruments of fine caliber. The clarinet is nice, but nothing compared to Keith’s. Though, in hindsight, that may be due to Keith’s fierce emotional attachment. 

They have been nothing but nice to him. And as the summer tapers to a close, today marking the first day Keith can't just lay around before leadership camp begins, bringing flurries of excitement and nervousness and that feeling of uncertainty, Keith feels the familiar glimmer of hope bubble in his chest. 

He can’t afford to lose this. He can’t afford to lose this family, this duo, that has invited him in, given him so much more than he has asked for. He can’t afford to lose this dream. Everything seems too good to be true - as far as Keith is concerned, he is a pessimist. This  _ will  _ end someday, he tells himself firmly. Don’t get too attached. They will become tired of you leeching off of them.

And yet… Allura still fixes her soft smile on him, the one filled with curiosity and kindness and, well,  _ Allura. _

And Alfor sometimes shoots him a gaze that he has reserved for Allura when he thinks Keith isn’t looking. Keith is always looking; one thing about his life so far has him entering a room, keeping his back to the wall at all times, and immediately scanning for exits. Keith has eyes everywhere it counts - the back of his head, his arms, his legs. 

If he were to get his hopes up this time only for it to fail like usual, Keith doesn’t know if he could bounce back. This is already a dream. In half a second, it could turn into a nightmare. 

Soft knuckles rap on the door behind him. Keith twists his body halfway around and clears his throat before calling, “Yeah?”

“It’s Allura. May I enter?” 

Keith nods before he remembers she can’t see him. “Sure.” 

Allura enters the room. Instead of her usual nice, summer dresses, she’s wearing workout leggings and a large, loose tanktop Keith guesses belongs to Shiro, her “not-boyfriend” (when Shiro comes over, Keith thinks about screaming something along the lines of,  _ “You’re both into each other. Just fucking kiss already.” _ Of course, he doesn’t - it isn’t any of his business, and he doesn’t want to anger Allura. Plus, he thinks Shiro is cool. Like, really fucking awesome - and hot. Like, _ really fucking hot.  _ He’d never admit it out loud, of course). Her thick, white curls are pulled up into a high bun. She raises an eyebrow at his position, but doesn’t say anything other than, “Are you ready to leave?”

Keith wracks his brain; he can’t think of anything he hasn't packed yet. Fully turning around to face her, Keith asks, “When are we going?”

Allura leans one hip against the doorframe. She crosses her arms. It isn’t an unkind gesture, just something to keep her busy. “Everyone should start showing up around seven, which means we are leaving very soon to be the first ones to arrive with the exception of Coran and Luxia.” She smiles. "So as soon as you are ready to leave. The sooner the better." The thought makes Keith a bit nervous; he forces the feeling down. On one hand, he just wants to stay home and avoid talking to people and facing the fact that he has an actual commitment. On the other hand, he’d be alone for days - and this would give him a chance to meet some people before the official start of camp. He doesn’t really feel up for social interaction at the moment - frankly, meeting new people has never been quite his thing - but Allura’s eyes are so hopeful and he remembers how happy she looked while she was introducing him to Shiro. Like she was introducing him as a… little brother, almost. But that’s crazy, right? Like. Keith has only been around for around five weeks. It’s stupid for him to be feeling like this, and he doesn’t think she - or anybody - could feel something like that for  _ him  _ in five weeks. 

Keith packed the night before, checking multiple times to make sure he has everything he needs. He shrugs. “I'm ready now.” 

Allura’s beam comes as a shock to him. “Wonderful! Do you need any help with your stuff?" At the shake of his head, she flashes him two thumbs up. "Lovely. I'm really glad you're joining us for camp,” as usual, her smile gives way to a mischievous smirk. Allura is great at those. “All - most,” she corrects herself, “of the leaders are very understanding and sweet. I imagine you'll get to know at least a couple. Father and I will be waiting in the car, so bring your stuff down and we'll be on our way!” At that, she flounces off. Keith watches her stop off in her bedroom to fetch her flute case and duffel bag before jogging down the stairs and heading for the garage.

Keith is already dressed; he glances in the mirror - the new pair of sweatpants the Kings bought him (Allura calls them “joggers”) and his almost-tight t-shirt look fine, he thinks - and laces his shoes, then grabs his own duffel bag and clarinet. He meets Allura and Alfor down in the garage. The door is open and the car is running already, Allura occupying the driver’s seat, which forces Alfor to take shotgun. Keith sets his luggage and clarinet in the trunk and scoots into the back.

Allura is calm and collected as she backs out of the garage. Alfor keeps his gaze trained behind them, knuckles paling as he clutches the dash with all of his strength. Allura glances at him and scoffs. She rolls her eyes in Keith’s direction using the rearview. 

“Do you not trust my driving, Father? I’ll have you know I am a  _ master  _ at backing out of things. Especially garages. Now, my parallel parking needs some work, but I passed the exam, didn’t I? And with flying colors-” Keith can  _ hear  _ the added ‘U’ in “colors”. She’s so English it physically hurts him. 

“ _ Allura-! _ ” Alfor cries out, grabbing the wheel and turning it the other direction. “Wrong way-”

“Oh,  _ merde _ , it was? I thought-” 

Snorting, Keith sits back and tunes them out, leaving them to their familial bickering. He taps out some rhythms on his arm, something familiar, and he’s in the middle of scanning his brain for every piece he’s ever heard to try and figure it out when the thumping of the front doors closing makes him jump. Allura taps the window to his left. She’s smiling, gesturing for him to “ _ come on, hurry up! _ ” 

Well, that was fast. He always forgets about the small distance between the house and the high school.

He obeys, nearly forgetting about his stuff in his haste. Allura presses his duffel and case into his arms. Once Keith has everything he needs, is out of the car, and has caught up with the Kings, Alfor opens the door to the band hall. 

“It is unlocked?” Allura questions.

“Coran,” is Alfor’s reply. He leaves it at that - Allura seems to know what he is talking about and nods as she holds the door open for Keith. 

Keith has been in the Altea High School’s band hall twice before now - the first was when he was checking out his marching clarinet at the end of June, and the second was when Allura dragged him with her to get a flute concerto that her friend composed for her about a week ago. If Keith focuses, he can remember what it sounds like - it is a gorgeous concerto. If he’s being honest, the flute is his favorite instrument; the low notes, when played correctly, are rich and thick and hang in the air like a whisper. High notes and vibrato together glitter brilliantly, shimmering like a fine mist. The constant vibrations of the flute collide with the clarinet’s smooth tones. They are entirely different sounds, but Keith loves them both regardless. 

Even after being in the band hall before, Keith is still shocked by the mere  _ size  _ of it. Its high, lofted ceiling, shiny black tile flooring, and a whole wall dedicated to windows that face the practice field contribute to the school’s prestigious aura. A few doors on the far side lead to respective instrument locker rooms - one for woodwinds, one for low brass, one for high brass. A small hallway connects the percussion room to the main area; Keith can hear the muffled, crisp rolls of a percussionist drumming on a snare. 

Another door leads to a second hallway where the three offices are - one for Alfor, the head band director and winds consultant; another for Mr. Coran, the secondary band director and percussion specialist (“and certified Band Mom,” chirped Allura one day, “or, at least, according to Lance.” When Keith asked who Lance was, Allura exchanged a look with Shiro and muttered, “Oh, you’ll see for yourself.” Keith still doesn’t know whether to be scared or not); and a third for the guard instructor, Miss Luxia. 

Finally, next to that, a  _ third  _ (and final) hallway connects the band hall to the rest of the fine arts area, along with the school-wide practice rooms. 

Keith follows Alfor and Allura to Alfor’s office. He sets his stuff down on a spare chair after seeing Allura do so. Alfor drops into his desk chair and logs into his computer, humming something Keith doesn’t recognize. Allura stands behind him, watching. She glances at her watch and sighs. 

“They will be here soon,” she mumbles. “Knowing Matt, they’ll arrive earlier than everyone else.”

“Well, Matthew is never late. It is part of his character,” replies Alfor. 

Allura, behind his back, meets Keith’s gaze and widens her eyes ever-so-slightly, shaking her head.  ‘ _ No it isn’t, _ ’ Allura mouths, smirking. Out loud, she says, “If you say so, Father. Where are Coran and Luxia?”

Alfor types away on his keyboard for a full minute, not looking at either of them. The question hangs in the air, the unknown answer soon making the tension awkward. As soon as the awkwardness reaches its peak, Alfor mumbles in response, “Getting coffee.”

Allura throws her hands in the air. “ _ Pourquoi _ -”

She is cut off by a fairly large crash coming from the main room. Keith jumps in his seat; he looks around wildly before settling on Allura. She doesn’t seem surprised at all. There’s a look of irritated amusement on her face. Sighing, she says, “Well. I think Matt is here. Come on, Keith. I’ll introduce you to Matt. He’s Shiro’s best friend, and-” 

Allura walks and talks. Keith has to jog to keep up with the brisk pace she sets. She stops mid-sentence as soon as she steps out into the main room. Standing in the middle of it are five boys - only one of which Keith recognizes, and it’s Shiro. Two of them look so similar, they could be twins, if not for the age and height difference. The fourth is a large, sheepishly grinning guy holding - yes, actually  _ holding bridal style  _ \- a skinny Latino boy who is… weeping? Into his shirt? Below him is a large instrument case sideways on the ground. Their own suitcases and duffel bags are spread around the room haphazardly.

One of the “twins” looks up first. It’s the older one; his face breaks out into a grin that has him jogging across the room. “Allura, my best friend in the entire world-!” Keith sees an exaggerated look of hurt and betrayal flit across Shiro’s features. 

“I thought  _ I  _ was your best friend in the entire world?” Shiro asks.

From his awkward, one-sided hug, the guy - Keith assumes it’s Matt - mumbles, “Nope. Pretty sure it’s Allura.” 

The guy weeping in the other one’s arms tumbles out of them, landing on his feet. He bends to his knees, fixes the case with an extreme amount of care to stand it upright again, and, as he rises back to his full height, leaves a lingering stroke to the tight leather. 

The other twin is hunched over in a ball on the ground. Keith thinks they might be asleep. He is proved wrong, however, when they raise their head and mumble something only the tall one and the big one can make out. 

The tall one groans, running a hand through his short, brown hair. He presses a hand to his chest and takes a deep breath to say something. Whatever Keith thought he was going to say vanishes as soon as the boy begins to speak - he couldn’t have been more wrong, whatever it was. 

“Pidge, I will tell you again,” he presses the palms of his hands together and points them at the one in the fetal position. “You will  _ die  _ if you drink a Super Big Gulp full of 5-Hour Energy. Just trust me on this. It isn’t worth it.” 

“I… am… so… tired,” comes the louder reply from… Pidge?

“What you read in that Amazon review wasn’t true. I, personally, can vouch for that. Remember when Hunk dared me to drink ten 5-Hour Energy bottles and I ended up vomiting so hard I knocked myself out? That was only  _ ten.  _ A Super Big Gulp has, like, more than ten.”

Keith stares in their direction. It shifts to each of them in turn. When he lands on the big one, his heart flips at the sight of him staring back, eyes narrowed in confusion. It gives way to recognition. He grins like a maniac and ditches his friends to approach Keith. 

“Hi! I’m Hunk,” Hunk exclaims. “Are you Allura’s new not-really-brother-more-like-a-cool-little-housemate?”

“Uh,” replies Keith eloquently.

Without missing a beat, Hunk holds out a hand for a high-five. “Lit. I’m Hunk. That’s Lance. That’s Pidge. That’s Shiro. That’s Matt. That’s Allura. Wait,” Hunk slaps his forehead with his palm, “You already  _ know  _ Allura.” Keith, unable to contain it, snorts.

Allura, having detangled herself from Matt, joins Keith’s side. “Right. Everybody, this is Keith. Don’t freak him out,” she sends a pointed glare to Lance, the one who was preaching about 5-Hour Energy. Lance practically throws his hands up in surrender. Allura continues, “You know Shiro, he’s our drumline captain. Matt is the front ensemble section leader, Pidge is his little brother who is also in front ensemble, Hunk is our sousaphone section leader, and Lance is the saxophone section leader.”

Lance pushes his way to the front (which basically means he gently nudges Hunk aside) and peers at Keith. Lance narrows his eyes. “Hmm,” hums Lance. “Hm.” 

Keith raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

Lance smirks. “You have a mullet.” Before Keith can snap back anything smart, Lance continues like he never said anything else. “What instrument do you play? No, wait - let me guess!”

“Lance…” Shiro sighs, somewhere off to Keith’s left. He’s too busy staring at Lance to look.

“Let me guess!” Lance repeats, and begins guessing despite no vocal agreement. “ _ Not  _ saxophone, I’d be able to recognize my own people. Not flute, you’re not-” he gestures wildly, huffing when he can’t get his point across, “- _ dainty  _ enough-” 

Well, it’s obvious why he couldn’t get his point across. Around him, everyone is sending tired, exasperated looks that he ignores. Okay, maybe Keith empathizes with what Allura said oh-so ominously about Lance. He really  _ would  _ see for himself.

“You don’t look satanic or suicidal, either, so no picc. Not trumpet, you’re not obnoxious enough. Not percussion, you have soft hands. Also, you just don’t seem, uh, percussion-y. Not souse, you’re tiny. You’re, like, so small dude. That’s adorable,” Lance barks out a laugh. Keith’s eyebrows knit together in bewilderment. Keith isn’t - he’s not even  _ small. _

Lance continues, “You look too smart to be a low brass. Uh, I mean trombone or bari-” Lance pats Hunk on the arm. “I love you, buddy. I didn’t mean it. You aren’t a mello, that much is obvious.” Everyone around them choruses their agreement. Last he remembered, mellophones didn’t have any particular stereotype, so he has no clue why they’re all agreeing so unanimously. “Which only leaves one. Clarinet.” Lance pretends to drop a bomb and mimics it blowing up, making an exaggerated explosion sound with his air. “Boom. Did I get it?” 

Before Allura or Shiro can tell him yes, he  _ did  _ get it, Keith frowns. “What if I play bassoon or oboe?” 

Lance snorts. “Uh, okay,  _ sure.  _ You’re too confident to play bassoon and you’re not confident enough for oboe. Am I right? I’m right, aren’t I?” He whoops as Keith diverts his gaze. “Lance, twenty - Hunk,  _ NONE! _ ”

“Hey,” Hunk whines, crossing his arms. “You mean Lance, twenty - Hunk,  _ one.  _ Remember I got that sousaphone during kickoff camp?” 

Lance seesaws his hand. “Ehh, they’re a sousaphone. You’re  _ supposed  _ to know your own instrument. But, hey, you’re my best friend, so I’ll give it to you,” Lance clears his throat, then announces again, “Lance, twenty - Hunk,  _ ONE! _ ” 

Pidge somersaults into a crawl, then clambers to his feet. He staggers to the crowd that surrounds Keith, Allura, and Shiro, because Shiro moved to stand next to Allura sometime in the middle of Lance’s stereotyping. He grabs Lance’s shoulder to ground himself, groaning.

“I hate all of you,” he grumbles.

Matt raises an eyebrow. “You didn't have to do leadership, you know.”

Two “Yes, he did.”'s and a single “Yeah, I did.” chorus at the same time. Lance grins, ruffling Pidge’s fluffy hair. 

“We forced Pidge to do leadership!” He chirps. Lance raises his head to look at Keith. Keith notices it out of his peripheral. He makes an extreme effort to keep looking away, stare somewhere else, look at the trophies on the wall, wonder how his clarinet is doing-

“You guys are here early,” Allura breaks the silence. “I expected this from Shiro-” 

_ “I bet she expects a lot of things from Shiro. _ ” 

“ _ LANCE- _ ” 

“Jesus, Lance, shut up-”

A muffled snort.

“Wait, what? I’m confused-”

“Dude, that wasn’t even sexual. You can do better than that.” 

“You’re right, Hunky, I can,” Lance muses, pressing a long index finger to his lips. Keith follows the motion. They’re so  _ long  _ \- they’d be  _ perfect  _ for piano. They’re the type of fingers you’d see on a hand model’s hand.

_ Aaaaand  _ he’s getting off track here. Jesus Christ -  _ why  _ is he so…  _ restless _ today? These intrusive thoughts are weird. Keith can’t remember if he’s been having them since he woke up, or since he entered the band hall - whatever the source, Keith needs to find it and get rid of it.

By the time he tunes back in, he’s obviously missed something, because Lance is smiling like an idiot, bouncing on the balls of his heels while Allura is facepalming, Shiro is shaking his head, muttering, “Subtle, Lance.” Pidge’s smirk matches Matt’s exactly, and Hunk is trying not to encourage him.

Keith sees no point in being here anymore. He’s confused and stressed and, if he’s being real, a bit left out, because even though the age range of these new people vary, along with their personalities, they seem as close-knit as a family. Lance’s obnoxious quips and scenes, while irritating, are taken as endearing and normal and, “ _ Oh, that’s just Lance. Don’t mind him. _ ” And if that isn’t a good adjective to describe their feelings, Keith isn’t bad at interacting with other humans.

He’s hit with the reality of the situation. Just like with the Kings, he’s an outsider. He can try all he wants to be one of them, but the harsh truth of it is that it will never happen. These people have probably grown up together. They probably have a bond so strong, nothing can break it. Keith doesn’t want to be the one to try. And even if, by some wild chance, he  _ does  _ make it into their group, he’s  _ Keith.  _ He won’t fit seamlessly, as the others do. He’ll be the… what, seventh wheel? And when the inevitable course of action happens, and the Kings become tired of him or realize they don’t need the money and therefore have no use for him, or he becomes a nuisance, then he’ll leave and never speak to anybody here ever again. It will go back to being just the six of them. Keith will be in a different city, a different school, a different world. And in the words of Robert Frost - ‘ _ and Johnny,’  _ Keith thinks - “Nothing gold stays.” 

Nothing gold stays. This right here? This friendship? Band?  _ Music?  _ The Kings? Altea? It will all be gone soon. The best chance scenario is that he’d stick out the school year. If that works out, then he’d be gone by June. It’s incredibly rare he stays an entire year at one house, and this is the  _ last  _ place he would expect to stick out so long. 

Keith doesn’t realize he’s retreated as far into his shell as he has until somebody claps in front of his eyes. He flinches. Keith’s arms instinctively raise in front of his body like a shield. Lance freezes, his nice hands still in the air. He purses his lips and looks back and forth between Keith and Allura, who Keith absolutely refuses to spare a glance towards. 

“Uh, you okay, buddy?” Lance asks.

Keith’s cheeks redden. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. "I was just thinking." 

To his relief, Allura swoops in to save him. "Keith is tired. Aren't we all? But, really, why did all of you come this early? You aren't due for another forty-five minutes or so."

"We're going to get donuts," Lance explains, pulling keys out of his pocket and swinging the chain around his finger. "It was originally supposed to be only me, Hunk, and Pidge, but then Matt needed a ride, too." He points his thumb to the door. "You can come with us if you want! You, Shiro  _and_ Keith!" Lance beams, catching Keith's gaze for a second longer than Keith wants him to. 

Allura eyes the keys. "Is that... legal?"

Behind Lance, Hunk, Pidge and Matt all shake their heads. Lance shrugs, a smirk playing across his face. "It's only illegal if we get caught. But what cop is gonna pull me, Master Driver Lance, over at six in the morning?" There's a brief pause in which everybody exchanges a Look. Keith doesn't exchange anything. He just watches everyone else, not sure what to do. "So," Lance claps his hands, catching the keys in between them. "I have room for everybody, even with Pidge's booster seat. Who's coming?"

Pidge smacks his arm. "I don't need a booster seat! I'm not that short-" 

"Yeah, you kinda are-" 

As Pidge and Lance bicker back and forth (with interjections of agreement from Matt and Hunk on Lance's side), Allura turns to Keith.

"Do you want to get donuts with them? It'll be fun," she pleads. Keith hesitates. He doesn't even know Lance, but for some reason, he doesn't really trust him behind the wheel. Then again, if Allura is willing to get in his car with six other people, it can't be that bad. He really isn't in the mood for extended social interaction, not during the few precious moments before he has to delve in for days on end. "Keith, I'll beg on my hands and knees, if you want." 

Keith rolls his eyes. "Don't embarrass me," he mumbles. "Fine, I'll go." 

Behind Allura, Shiro smiles at her dramatic _whoop_. "Glad you're coming, Keith," he nods to him, still laughing at the girl.

As Keith follows them out to Lance's car, he thinks, ' _I'm only tagging along so Allura wouldn't be upset. I don't care about what these people think of me, if they even think of me at all._ ' 

Allura links elbows with Keith on the way out, texting her dad their whereabouts. "They're cool people, Keith. You'll like them." 

He swallows thickly, glancing ahead at the skipping forms of Lance and Matt. Yeah, they probably are. But that doesn't mean Keith wants to get involved with them. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not happy with the way the last bit turned out, but i wanted to get this out. is the pacing okay of this? i feel like it's wonky and bad and aaaagggghhhhh this is fun to write but also so hard!!! thanks for reading and commenting i love u all i will get next chapter out (lance's pov!) asap hehe happy new year


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